


The Fifth Proposition of Euclid

by RileyC



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bickering, M/M, Post-Hiatus, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some while back (so long she probably doesn't even remember *g*),  kitestringer gave me a prompt for an SH fic that was along the lines of: A female client flirts with Watson, Holmes is jealous. Then, somewhat more recently,  fanfromfla, gave me one involving bathing. The following fic is the result of combining those two prompts, with a little extra.</p><p>We visit the post-Hiatus period yet again, with certain matter still unsettled between our heroes. Resolution is reached as a case concludes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fifth Proposition of Euclid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fanfromfla](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fanfromfla).



> (1) This is a birthday fic for fanfromfla, who deserves a whole lot more, but it's a pleasure to deliver this much at least.
> 
> Also, (2) if the title seems odd, it's what Holmes says to Watson, in The Sign of Four, when he's bitching about Watson fleshing out A Study in Scarlet with a love story when it should have been all about Holmes's brilliance.
> 
> "Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

“We are under observation, Doctor.”

Sherlock Holmes's voice carried no hint of alarm or warning. Thus, while I turned my head in curiosity, there was no accompanying apprehension of sudden attack. Such an occurrence would have, after all, been more than slightly singular here in the civilized environs of Simpson's.

“The gentleman in the Norfolk jacket?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head slightly. “No; he's a gamekeeper, here to inform his employer on progress regarding a poaching problem. No, I direct your attention to the woman - American, I believe - two tables over.” He made a slight gesture with the cigarette he was smoking.

I glanced where he indicated, and spied a rather handsome woman, somewhat past the first bloom of youth but, to my eye, all the better for it. She was indeed making a study of us, and carelessly allowing her to catch my eye, my own powers of deduction were sufficient to determine that she believed an invitation had been issued. That she replied with a broad smile and instantly excused herself to her companions, rapidly approaching our table, went some way to confirming Holmes's assertion she was American.

“I do beg your pardon,” she said before we had even had a chance to rise to our feet, “but you _are_ him, aren't you?” At closer view, her fair complexion revealed a charming sprinkle of freckles, no doubt from making the most of the summer just past. And her accent, the consonants hard, the vowels flat, did indeed confirm place of origin as the United States; it's more western regions, I thought.

Holmes, on his feet beside me, was preparing to greet her, and accept either her admiration or an appeal for help. He never got the chance, however, as she cast him a brief, disinterested look and turned her attention to me.

“You _are_ Dr. John Watson?”

“I am, madam. Are you in need of medical assistance?” I asked.

Looking delighted at the prospect, she said, “Don't I wish? No,” she went on before I could respond in any way to her comment, “it's nothing like that. You don't mind if I join you, do you?” she said, seating herself before Holmes and I could do more than exchange looks of vague astonishment over her head.

“Indeed not,” I said, seating myself once more, curious as to where this extraordinary encounter was going. If Holmes suspected, he gave no sign. “Miss…?”

“Harper, Kate Harper. I just can't get over it,” she said, gaze riveted to my face with a disturbingly ardent glint in her eyes. “Dr. Watson, flesh and blood as can be. My friends back home'll never believe it; they think you and Sherlock Holmes are just made up characters in those detective stories.”

“I assure you, Miss Harper, we are quite real. In fact,” seizing the opportunity to direct her attention elsewhere, I indicated my companion, “this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh,” said Miss Harper, as my friend inclined his head in a modest acknowledgment. “Well I do recall reading something about you turning up alive after all. That must have been some kind of shock,” she said, returning her attention to me.

She had no idea. At times I suspected Holmes had no great comprehension of it, either. “It was, but a pleasant one, of course.” That was entirely true. That I could look across the table and see Holmes seated there continued to carry the air of a miracle. Other, attendant matters, remained somewhat murky, however.

“Of course.” Miss Harper turned a dubious look on my friend. “If you don't mind me saying, you don't much look like your pictures in the magazines.”

Vanity ruffled, Holmes replied, “Those _are_ illustrations, madam.”

“Well I know that, don't I?” she returned, clearly far from cowed. “You'd think the artist would make more of an effort to do a proper likeness.”

He raised an eyebrow. “May I draw your attention, madam, to the fact that Mr. Sidney Paget does not render a true-to-life portrait of Dr. Watson, either.”

“I should say not,” Miss Harper declared with good humor, focused upon me once more with blatant admiration. “The doctor's much handsomer in person.”

“Is he indeed?” Holmes murmured, becoming rather more than ruffled. I suspected his burgeoning sense of pique was detectable only to myself, however.

Miss Harper's curiosity was far from being satisfied, and I did my best to answer her questions. It would be dishonest to say that I was not somewhat flattered by her attentions. Holmes was certainly sparing in his compliments, especially with regard to my writing, so that to hear someone talk of them so effusively was a rare pleasure. Her observations, both in regard to certain cases as well as to my choices in presenting the adventures to the public, were not without a degree of astuteness - loath though Holmes might be to admit it.

Gratifying as Miss Harper's attentions were, however, upon her extracting the information that I was now a widower made me grow a bit wary. Especially as I felt quite certain I had caught something of a predatory gleam in her eyes at that piece of data.

Seeking for some means of removing myself from her attentions, before any misunderstanding might occur, I had seldom been so pleased to perceived Inspector Lestrade's wiry form making its way toward us.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” said he, with a quick nod of greeting, sharp eyes giving Miss Harper a speculative look, “I was told I might find you here. There's been,” he hesitated, casting Miss Harper another look, and continued with discretion, “ahem, a development in that matter we spoke of.”

“I believe I did predict there would be,” Holmes said.

“So you did, Mr. Holmes.”

“I fear we may have to do without the good doctor,” Holmes said, with an air of amusement as he got to his feet to accompany Lestrade.

“Is that right, Doctor?” Lestrade reassessed Miss Harper, and I could see the conjectures running through his mind as plainly as though they were writ across his forehead.

“Miss Harper is an admirer of my writing,” I said, striving to remain even-tempered. Giving her a gracious smile, I said, “I am certain she would not wish to keep me from concluding another case.” I did, however, fear for a moment that she would find a way to invite herself to come along with us.

Were I any judge, such an idea did pass rapidly through her mind, but then she said, “Of course I wouldn't. You will be careful, won't you, Doctor?” she said, her hand touching my sleeve.

Clearing my throat, I said that of course I would, all too aware of Holmes and Lestrade watching our little interaction.

“You're quite certain you don't want to stay with your devotee, Watson?” Holmes remarked as we waited on the sidewalk for Lestrade to bring a hansom around.

“Oh, yes, very amusing, Holmes,” I said, unaccountably ill-tempered of a sudden. “Although it hardly rises to the level of your gallivanting about Europe with that woman.”

Holmes favored me with a severe look. “There was no gallivanting, as you put it, Doctor. Miss Adler--“

“Mrs. Norton.”

“Miss Adler and I,” he continued, “happened to chance upon one another in Italy.”

“Oh, yes? Is that the _au courant_ phrase for it on the Continent these days?”

Whatever reply Holmes may have made was halted as Lestrade rejoined us. Likely that was for the best as we were both saying far too much, and this was certainly neither the time or place for such matters.

As the cab rattled on into the evening, Lestrade said, “It must be a rare treat, Dr. Watson, meeting an admirer of your tales about Mr. Holmes here.”

Holmes snorted. Ignoring him, I told Lestrade, “Yes, it is, as a matter of fact.”

“And no harm if the young lady admires more than the tales, eh, Doctor?” Lestrade said, astonishing me with a knowing wink.

“Yes, well, I would hope, Inspector,” Holmes said, “you haven't sought us out to discuss the good doctor's literary prowess.”

“Seems to me that's worth a discussion, as a matter fact,” said Lestrade, “although I'll grant you, it's for another time. You make light of his tales as you like, Mr. Holmes, but it's my opinion you owe Dr. Watson a debt of gratitude for your notoriety.”

Voice cool, Holmes said, “I am well aware of what I owe, Watson, Inspector. Now,” he continued briskly, “as to tonight's business - our quarry's on the move?”

“How did you--Oh, never mind,” Lestrade said, with a commiserating glance at me. “Yes, Lady DeWitt spent the day running a number of errands, including booking passage on a steamship departing Liverpool for America.”

“Where, no doubt,” I said, “future husbands await to be poisoned for their insurance money.”

“So cynical of the matrimonial state, Watson?” said Holmes.

“Hardly; the Emma Jacksons of the world are far from the norm.”

Lady Clara DeWitt had, in her 36 years, beginning as Emma Jackson, a Yorkshire blacksmith's comely daughter, accumulated five husbands, each wealthier than the last. Tragically, none had enjoyed their connubial bliss longer than two years before succumbing to the effects of a sudden illness. She'd had the misfortune in her last marriage, however, to Lord Charles DeWitt, to take as her husband a man associated with Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft's suspicions had been aroused, he had sent for his brother and myself, and although we had not been in time to save Lord DeWitt, we had confirmed Mycroft's deduction of arsenical poisoning. Armed with that, we had approached Lestrade, only to discover our request for official assistance had been anticipated: “Caught onto our Emma's ways, have you gentlemen?” he'd said, puffed up with an air of satisfaction. “Only took you a couple of husbands.”

Seated between us now, the inspector said, “That's as may be, Dr. Watson, but I'll tell you this, and it's based on experience: It's my belief that, when there's a story like this affair making its rounds, there's many a married man who loses his appetite for a few days and waits for the lady of the house to take that first sip of tea.”

Holmes threw his head back in a quick bark of laughter. “And I could name you a dozen or more instances of why these men are wise to exercise some caution.”

Annoyed with both of them, I said, “I'm sure Mrs. Lestrade would be entertained by your theory, Inspector.”

Unabashed, he said, “It's Betty put the idea in my mind. One morning she says to me - this was during that nasty Endicott business out in Surrey, you'll remember it, I'm sure - 'Gervase,' she says, 'it's a wonder any man takes a meal at home for how are any of you to know what we're putting in your stews?' Fair gave me a turn for a bit, that did. Does make a man wonder.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said, sharing an amused look with me. “And should you go to your maker as a result of unnatural causes, we shall have a readymade suspect at hand.”

Lestrade laughed, thought about it a moment, and grew rather more quiet after that as Holmes went on to say he thought it likely such distrust of women, and the authority they exercised in the kitchen, lay at the heart of the horrific witch hunts of centuries past.

I did venture to suggest that we might benefit from forming a strategy on how to best apprehend Emma Jackson, but Holmes was quick to dismiss my concerns. All was well in hand, he assured myself and Lestrade, and he anticipated a smooth and efficient conclusion to the case.

On that point, as it happened, he proved rather less acute than was customary.

~*~

The clock was chiming 2 o'clock when we finally let ourselves into 221B and wearily climbed the steps to our rooms. Our attempted stealth, not wanting to disturb our long-suffering landlady, proved a failure as Mrs. Hudson appeared with a swiftness that made one suspect she had been waiting up for us. Taking one look at our battered, bruised, and bloodied appearance, she told us she'd have hot water ready to send up in a few minutes, as well as a good, strong pot of tea.

Both would be welcome, and I trusted Inspector Lestrade would be welcomed as warmly when he reached home. We had parted with Lestrade at Scotland Yard, two of his burliest constables summoned to restrain Emma Jackson between them.

Some hours before I might have objected to a lady being so roughly restrained. That was before she had kicked, bitten, gouged, scratched, and - scrambling wildly free of us long enough to reach a small pistol hidden in her handbag - fired off three shots that, even in those hectic circumstances displayed an alarmingly precise marksmanship. Had she been less desperate, and the three of us less vigilant, one or more of us might have sustained a grievous wound. As it was, the inspector was going to be favoring his right shoulder for a week or so.

By that point my chivalry had evaporated and I was glad to snap the handcuffs on Emma's wrists as Lestrade pinned her down. Holmes, at that moment, had been bent over, the wind knocked out of him by a well-placed kick to the solar plexus administered by Emma.

“All things considered,” I said, seated in my favorite armchair, legs stretched out toward the blazing fire, “her husbands may gotten off lightly, only being poisoned.”

Lounging on the settee, Holmes looked over at me, disbelief at my remark swiftly transforming into amusement. Mrs. Hudson, entering with the tea tray, the maid trailing behind with hot water, to find us both collapsed in laughter, spared us a raised eyebrow of tolerant understanding. The girl looked a bit more dubious, but seemed to comprehend that hers was not to reason why.

~*~

Retired to my bedroom and stripped to the waist, I studied the reflection cast in the mirror. A fairly impressive bruise was spreading over my ribs on the left side, but my probing fingers discovered only some sore tenderness, and the ease of my breathing confirmed nothing was fractured. Dipping the sponge into the basin of soapy, hot water, I carefully washed the scrape on my jaw, and the fingernail scratches on my neck. A few more bruises would likely reveal themselves when I undressed fully, but I counted myself fortunate to have largely escaped the lady's wrath.

Wetting the sponge again, wringing it out, I rubbed it over my shoulders, wincing a bit at the slight pull in the left, and was rubbing it over my chest when my door opened and Holmes's image joined mine in the mirror.

Shirt collar undone, he had thrown on his dressing gown and appeared at his most bohemian as he lounged against a small bookshelf. Dark hair tousled, grey eyes observant as ever but … softened a bit? I considered, my skin prickling as he watched with keen, uncanny intent as I washed myself.

“If I may?” he asked, approaching at last and reaching to take the sponge from my hand. Dampening it once more, squeezing out the drips, he drew it lightly across my back, carefully rubbing a bit more firmly at one spot, just between my shoulder blades. “You've another scratch here,” he explained, watching me watch him, in the mirror.

“Have I?” I said, voice scarcely above a whisper as he drew the warm sponge along my spine, drawing a slow circle at the small of my back. “Holmes…”

“Will you never call me Sherlock., John?”

I smiled, shook my head slightly. “It's an absurd name.”

“Nevertheless,” he ran the sponge back up my spine, ran it lightly, back and forth, along my shoulder, “I believe I should like the sound of it upon your lips.”

“Did you like it on hers, as well?” I regretted the question, both for the pained look that flashed across his features, as well as the futility of it. I had deserted him long before Reichenbach, after all. What right had I to injured feelings?

“She called me Mr. Holmes, congratulated me on my reading of the King's character--“

“Or lack thereof.”

“--or lack thereof,” he acknowledged with a quick nod, “and bade me farewell. Nothing more.”

I turned to face him now, demanding, “Then why did you imply - very strongly imply, Holmes - that there was a good deal more?”

He did have the graciousness to look a trifle shamefaced. “It was childish, I grant you, but…”

“What?”

He met my eyes directly, the cool grey of his warmed with a flash of challenge. “It did, at least, provoke a reaction from you.”

“Oh, yes, I daresay it did. Why would you--“

“Watson … John,” he looked almost imploring now, “ever since my return you've been … distant. I suppose I wanted to know if there was anything still between us.”

My expression, I'm sure, must have been one of incredulity. “My fainting away dead on the spot wasn't enough for you?”

“That was shock.”

“It was a good deal more than that, Holmes, and if you don't bloody know that--“

With a sudden movement that surprised us both, he reached for my head, long fingers snarling in my hair as he tilted my face slightly upward, to press his forehead to mine. “Let me make amends.”

“Holmes…” I pushed back somewhat, looking into his eyes, reading a painful of battle of hope with uncertainty in their depths. “There are no amends to make. You're alive,” now I smoothed my hands along his lean shoulders, pressed one to his chest to feel its rise and fall - taking some pleasure in the quickening of those beats, the catch of breath. “Anything else is…” Searching for the correct word, I gave him a firm look as he supplied, somewhat too hopefully--

“Incidental?”

\--and told him, “Hardly that. It's nothing insurmountable, though. Death is the only thing insurmountable, Holmes,” I murmured, allowing myself to touch his face, run a finger lightly over the bruise staining a prominent cheekbone. “We've conquered that. The rest is--“

“You're not going to say 'elementary,' are you?”

“I hadn't planned to, no.” My hands cupped along his face, fingers tickled by the scratchiness of beard stubble, I said, “No one here is blameless, Holmes. Nor were your apprehensions without foundation. Had I known you survived Moriarty, I might well have been tempted into reckless action.”

“To fly to my rescue?”

“It would not be the first time,” I said, closing the slight distance between us by drawing his face to mine for a kiss.

Our first kiss, a lifetime ago, had been desperate and clumsy, wonderful and terrifying. This kiss was no less fervent, but seasoned by experience and a knowledge of loss that added a poignant undertone. Bittersweet, yes, but no less gratifying for it. Perhaps this kiss was even more delicious because of what it had cost us to come this far.

His lips yielded to mine - then pursued them, his tongue parting my lips, tasting me. There was no hesitation, no trace of the reluctance that had colored our intimacy before, as if he acted against his will. Whatever fears had encumbered him before, made him hold back, I could detect no lingering trace of them now in the passionate kisses that gloriously robbed us both of breath.

He kissed me as though he craved me. Impossible that I should give him anything less in return.

Pushing the dressing gown off his shoulders, I undid his shirt, letting it fall to the floor as well as I pulled him tight against me, wanting - needing to feel his naked skin burn against mine. I needed more, to lower him to the bed and kiss his face and throat, his chest, heart beating rapidly as I rested my cheek there - pulling a gasp of surprise, and pleasure, from him as I turned my head and flicked my tongue against his nipple.

“Watson … John,” fingers tangled in my hair again, he tugged me up so we rested face to face, sharing the pillow, sharing breath, “you do stir the most remarkable feelings within me.” Expression growing serious, he said, “You always have, dear fellow. I cannot apologize enough for ever making you doubt that.”

The sudden constriction of my throat made words difficult, but touching his face, I said, “If you truly feel compelled to apologize,” my voice was growing stronger, “may I make a suggestion?”

Eyes dancing, he said, “What?”

“There is this expression, American, I believe, about actions speaking louder than words.”

Smiling, pressing me down on the mattress as he loomed over me for an instant, he said, “Is there indeed?” - and proceeded to demonstrate, with eager hands and hungry mouth, a most impressive grasp of that concept.

~*~

“Your Miss Harper was correct about one thing.”

“Was she?” I said, rubbing the sponge over his stomach, washing away the sweat and stickiness of our loving.

He stilled my hand, took the sponge from me to lovingly wash my body in return. “You are, indeed, far handsomer in the flesh,” he said, bending his head to lick a delicate, delicious trail along my throat and on down over my belly.

“Sherlock,” he raised his head to smile at me, appearing to like the sound of his name on my lips very well indeed, “we'll need to bathe again.”

“Have you any other objection?”

“None at all,” I said, content indeed as he kissed my mouth and tangled our bodies together again, the slight creaking of the bedsprings as sweet a music as any from his violin.

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> (1) This is a birthday fic for fanfromfla, who deserves a whole lot more, but it's a pleasure to deliver this much at least.
> 
> Also, (2) if the title seems odd, it's what Holmes says to Watson, in The Sign of Four, when he's bitching about Watson fleshing out A Study in Scarlet with a love story when it should have been all about Holmes's brilliance.
> 
> "Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story into the fifth proposition of Euclid."


End file.
